


His Grandfather's Knife

by Dareandwriteit



Series: Dadgnus and his detective son [1]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst I guess, Angus' grandpa was great, Found Family, Gen, I'm finally using my degree for something and it's a history of getting drunk, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 02:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11071983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dareandwriteit/pseuds/Dareandwriteit
Summary: Angus and Magnus have something very tangible in common.





	His Grandfather's Knife

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Patterns of Migration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10709301) by [goodnicepeople](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnicepeople/pseuds/goodnicepeople). 



Sometimes, when it was late and the only noises in the house were the creaking shutters and the dripping sink, Angus felt apart from it all. He tried not to take notice of it. But there were moments - not even moments, glimpses - of the worlds of differences between him and Magnus which stuck like barbs to his mind. The slight vacancy in Magnus’ eyes when Angus used a word he’d thought had been universal. The thousandth of a second he would hesitate before attempting to read a book of no interest to him. The distant “uh huh” he would give in answer to a question he had no comprehension of.

Magnus cared, deeply and genuinely, in a way that Angus still couldn’t comprehend. Magnus’ efforts were sincere, and from a place of truly wanting to cross that distance to between them.

The distance still existed. And sometimes it felt infinite.

Angus kept a secret, tucked away in a shoebox under a blanket under his bed. And on these late nights, when he felt alone in the house despite Magnus sleeping just one room away, he would unbox his secret. The items would gleam with the silver moonlight, feeling as though they were something profound and magical in this moment. 

A small set of silverware, far from complete. Angus would set the box beside him on the bed, and polish the pieces until his hands ached. It was unthinkable that he would allow them to tarnish, the one connection he had to the McDonald name. The only person that Angus knew was truly like him.

These pieces had meant something different in the hands of his parents: an ice cold spoon pressed to the back of his neck that made his spine jolt and his teeth grind. A sharp tap on the elbows with a fork to force them off the table in polite company. The knife scraped against the dinner plate in a sickening screech to drown out irrelevant chatter about some fanciful detective book.

They called it discipline. Or at least Angus assumed they did. They had never told him.

But the silverware had not always been in the hands of his parents. They had once been his grandpa’s pride and joy. He had sat Angus down and told him all the different uses for the different forks and knives, laying out a feast of different food to try them with. He had told Angus how to toast a drink, and they’d drunk fizzy cider that had bubbled in Angus’ nose and made him giggle. 

“When you toast someone who’s the same level as you or lower, you can just say  
‘To Angus!’ or whatever their name may be. But, when you toast someone who’s your superior by saying, ‘To the so-and-so’s health!’ You don’t say just their name.” His grandpa had said, spilling his drink as he raised it in the air.

“Why?” Angus had asked, unable to hold in his question. He flinched upon asked it, but was met with a thoughtful hum instead of a stark dismissal.

“Y’know, I don’t know. I suppose we shall have to find out.” His grandpa had answered after some thought, and they had sat side by side reading “A History of Getting Royally Plastered” toasting everything they could see. The dogs. The servants. The cutlery. Each other.

They toasted his parents by name and not by their health, and it felt like a scandalous secret only the two of them shared.

Angus missed his grandpa. He liked books, and detective work, and it so often felt though he knew everything. He used words that Angus would write down and look up later for his own use. He would recommend new books on all sorts of things: bees, medicine, poems, conjuration. Angus enjoyed every book he was given, treasuring every page he was allowed to touch and linger on.

If his grandpa was still here, Angus didn’t know if he would be with Magnus. It felt disloyal, ungrateful, to wish for something else. Magnus loved him, and gave him food, and he tried. He really tried.

“Man Angus, I had no idea you still had these!” Magnus’ voice came from the doorframe, and Angus dropped the knife in his hand with a panic. He grabbed a fistful of the cutlery- sorry, sorry, sorry- and threw them in the box, slamming the lid on.

“Please don’t!” Angus snapped, hating his voice broke on his words.

“Whoa.” Magnus said, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. He was in his pajamas: a ridiculously oversized bed shirt and threadbare mismatched socks. The bags beneath his eyes betrayed a night of fruitless attempts to sleep. Angus threw a blanket over the box and pushed down on it hard, as though he could will it through the bed and down through the floorboards so it was no longer a problem.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop there shortstuff! You’re gonna hurt yourself.” Magnus took a cautious step forward, and then another. He was within reach of Angus, but merely stood there with a hand outstretched.

“It doesn’t mean anything! You have to believe me Sir!” Magnus winced at the word sir, and Angus took a sharp breath in. Magnus had been Magnus for months. He’d stopped being Sir once the house had started to feel like a home. It was a milestone that had passed without ceremony, without notice, until they found themselves back at it.

“What doesn’t mean anything?” Magnus asked, cocking his head like one of their many rescued dogs.

“It’s just so valuable, and if I can keep it nice we might be able to get enough money to buy that new furnace you need, and I really am grateful-” Angus spoke so fast he could make no sense of what he was saying. It was just noise, just a flurry of attempts to move the clock along, to bury this moment in the past where it was no longer so awfully painful. 

“Wait, you were gonna sell your grandpa’s silverware?” Magus asked, an eyebrow raised.

Angus swallowed, as though he could swallow the lie.

“You don’t have to do that, Ango. I- we have have enough money already. I know it’s nothin’ fancy, but our house is alright, isn’t it?”

Angus nodded strongly, tears rolling down his face.

“Then what’s the matter?”

All of this, Angus wanted to say. The fact he felt he’d made the wrong choice, and how that was wrong because there really wasn’t any choice at all, just a pretence that he could’ve had a better life if the world was different. How life with his grandpa would be better in so many measurable ways, money and schooling and actual blood relatives, and how it wouldn’t be better at all because Magnus wouldn’t be part of it. How his bed here was always warm and he was always fed, and that should be enough. 

Angus said nothing.

Magnus pulled a face, concern free of anything malicious. He slowly went to Angus’ bed, and peeled back on the blanket on the bed. He gave a look to Angus as his hands lower on the dented box, a pleading _is this okay_ that Angus had so rarely seen from anyone before Magnus. Angus nodded, trying to wipe his face on the edge of the blanket. Magnus opened the box, and pulled out the only knife that Angus had managed to recover.

Magnus held it up in the moonlight, tested it’s balance on his finger. He ran a tradesmans eye over its pattern, taking particular note the the word “McDonald” engraved in cursive along it’s handle. He took particular interest in the crest at the bottom, running his finger over the grooves that made its image. He gave a few thoughtful hums, and pinched at his chin in a pensive pose.

“It’s beautiful. Real top notch crafting. Didn’t know you had a crest, Ango.” Magnus said, as he moved the knife through the air, testing it’s weight.

“It’s not mine. It’s my grandpa’s.” Angus sniffled.

“Well, that’s the thing about crests. Everyone in the family gets it. Who’d a thunk you were like a proper knight?” Magnus said, keeping a careful sideways eye on Angus.

“But he’s not family! You are.” Angus blurted, snatching the knife from Magnus and putting it back in the box.

Magnus sat on the bed next to Angus, staring at the floor as he tried to think. “Is this is what this is about? You think you’re not allowed your old family now you’ve got me around?”

“I don’t want them.” Angus said, and he was shocked at his own answer. To his surprise, Magnus let out a slight exhale, a laugh not fully formed.

“Y’know what no-one tells you ‘bout family Ango?” Magnus looked at Angus with a lopsided smile. “You get to pick and choose who’s part of it.”

“But my parents-”

Magnus waved away Angus’ concern. “Yeah, yeah, blood shmud. You think I’m related to Taako? Or Merle? Hell no! I’d be the weirdest looking freak this side of Neverwinter. But they’re my family. They’re your family too, if you want them to be.”

Angus nodded slowly, not looking up from his hands. Magnus sighed, and then seemed to have an idea.

“Wait one second, short stuff, I’ll be right back.”

It was a few minutes, during which Angus took the knife back out of the box, and gave it a cursory polish. Magnus had left large whorled fingerprints on it, and Angus couldn’t bare to let them stay. He couldn’t think why. The knife just had to be clean.

When Magnus returned, he out of breath, huffing and puffing like he’d run a marathon. He landed back on Angus’ bed with a heavy thud.

“Sorry, I couldn’t remember where I’d put it.” Magnus said, unfurling his hand. He held a knife, not a dining one like Angus’, but one more suited to fighting and wood carving. It was very well used: the wooden handle becoming almost spongy in how softened it was. But clearly legible on that handle was the name BURNSIDES.

“This is _my_ grandpa’s knife. ‘Course, I called ‘im Peepum’s and he told me it was for killing animals, not eating them. But the principle’s the same.”

Angus ran a hand over the handle of the knife. It once was a much bigger handle, years of use wearing it down. The name had been re-engraved and re-engraved, to keep it clear and legible. The blade had been sharpened often enough it was fast approaching a state of perpetual dullness. It was well loved, as well as well used.

“It’s nice.” Angus said, unable to find words that felt big enough for the gesture Magnus was making.

“My grandpa wasn’t around much for me. But I loved ‘im. He’s part of me, just like yours is a part of you. You don’t give up old family when you get new. Your family… it just gets bigger. Newer.” Magnus wrapped his hand around Angus’, holding the knife together. “I don’t want you to lose family for me. Gods know you deserve all the family you can get. I’d be proud to have your grandpa be part of my family. He liked you, so he must have some sense.”

Angus laughed, to his surprise. He was still crying, but the tears weren’t quite so sad, so heavy. There was a lightness to them, as though they were washing away a weight Angus hadn’t quite realised was there.

Angus and Magnus sat downstairs that night, eating ice cream with the wrong kind of spoon. Angus taught Magnus about toasting people, and they raised their glasses of water to every member of their family they could think of.

To Merle! To Taako! To Lucretia! To Carey and Killian! To Avi! To Johan! To Davenport! To Kravitz! To Roswell! To Ren! To Paloma! To Cassidy! To Jess the Beheader! To the Juicy Wizard or Graham or Percy! To Garfield! To Leon! To June! To Redmond and Luca! To Pan and Istus! To Steven the goldfish! To Sloane and Hurley! To Cam! To Garyl! To Steven Waxman! To Julia! To Grandpa McDonald and Peepums Burnsides! 

To world’s greatest detective!  
To the master craftsman!

And it was never to anyone’s health. This was a family without superiors. The very first that Angus had been in.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is definitely part of the Patterns of Migration world where Angus moves in with Magnus post adventure. Whether its as good as that fic is yet to be seen.
> 
> This is literally from me mishearing the podcast where Travis said he had his grandpa's knife and I responded, "Wait, I thought Angus had his grandpa's knife?"
> 
> Also I'm totally committed to always referring to Magnus' grandpa as Peepums Burnsides. That's canon in my eyes.
> 
> This wasn't proofread or anything, so please be kind <3
> 
> ALSO LOOK AT THIS AWESOME ART ANNIE DID FOR THIS:  
> https://twitter.com/dancynrew/status/876193205313720320


End file.
